Uninspired
by Cherry Champagne
Summary: Kenny needs a place to stay. Stan needs a place to fill. Kinda sucky.


Stan bought the old farmhouse for the sake of the dogs, mostly. They needed a lot of room for running around. Hell, someday, he might even use that old barn—buy a couple sheep, maybe a cow or something. Not as cattle, just as pets. Make him feel less pretentious.

Outdoors was nice. A lot of yard work to be done—ten acres to mow, the huge tree—wonder it was still alive—that would cover the entire lawn in leaves year-round, plus the wired-in porch that provided a calm place to sit and rock when the weather was nice enough. Outside, the bugs went crazy.

Indoors wasn't quite as great.

It was probably around a hundred years old. The floors creaked, and the whole place shook if he didn't walk like the planks were broken glass. Good shape—the last owner was retired. Didn't have much to do but wait for a problem and fix it. Fresh wallpaper and water heater and everything. Just old and big and quiet.

He was secretly not unhappy when he got Kenny's call—the first one in two years. Slurring slightly, his voice unchanged, he callously imposed, trying to beg with dignity for a place to stay. He tried to keep the smile off his face as he gave in.

He spent the next day cleaning. When there was no cleaning left to do, he set up the biggest guest room, the one with the big window. When he ran out of small touches to add to that, he went grocery shopping.

The dogs woke him up the next morning. He shoved his face further into his pillow, trying to escape the dappled yellow sunlight, before taking an exasperated glance at the clock. Noon.

The bell rang three times, interrupting itself, as he got himself free of the bed and stumbled downstairs, creating a crowd's worth of noise with each strained footstep, and rushed to the door.

He was smiling. Missing a tooth, right in front—long haired, so he probably still had to twitch his neck every few minutes to clear his vision. Holding an overnight bag over his shoulder, emaciated but toned.

He dropped the bag and draped his arms around the breathless Stan, laughing, greeting, hugging, while the recipient stood like a block of wood. He smelled like sweat and dirty laundry—it suited him.

Inside, he analyzed the house silently. Little silver picture frames, wood floors and huge, doorless doorframes. He dragged his fingers over the yellowed keys of the old piano, creating whispering notes as he touched the weak black keys. He made wry observations about Stan's pursuing the isolated country life, likening him to the Emily Dickinson of stupid jingles.

They spent the evening on the porch, drinking bottled beer, listening to the crickets and forming disjointed conversation.

A week passed, eventless. Stan tittered on the piano, wondering how he had ever found inspiration before, while Kenny did what could be best described as cheerful sulking. Wandering around, going from activity to activity without focusing on anything longer than a half an hour, falling into apathy.

The next Saturday, Stan loaded him into the pick-up and drove the twenty minutes into town to the Beer. He claimed Kenny needed to spend time out of the house—more accurately, he was the one who needed out.

Cartman was there—Stan left Kenny at the bar to take on an Air Hockey challenge. He was pulled back less than an hour later by the call of the pony-tailed bartender, demanding he get his friend out of there. The stool was overturned, with Kenny on the floor, laughing, staring distantly at the diluted blood drip from a gash on his beer-dripping palm, the shattered glass spread out on the floor around him.

When they got back, Kenny had a large red spot on his forehead from pressing against the window to match the red stains on his hands. He was picking at the long cut like a kid, ripping open the mushy scab again and again, giggling as if he were stoned.

Stan had to help him out of his sweatshirt and jeans, wipe off the cut and put a band-aid over it to discourage touching, and tucked him into bed. Kenny was obedient, snuggling into the sheets and thanking Stan for taking care of him, apologizing for drinking too much.

It only took two notes pinged out before he burst back from the bench in a fit of claustrophobia—a brief psychosis the sort of which could be slept off. Sleep sounded good.

The windows were unrealistically blue as he traded his clothes for baggy sweats. He sat on the edge of the bed, willing himself to climb in and try to shut down his mind.

He was almost asleep when the door creaked open. Nostalgia swept over him—seven, huddled in bed, staring wide-eyed at an unfamiliar noise where there should have been none, monsters in every crevice.

His eyes were adjusted to the darkness well enough to see the vague shape of Kenny burrowing under his comforter from the foot of the bed, snaking up between his legs until his face, cold and hard, lay on Stan's stomach, somehow making it feel warmer.

When he asked what he was doing, he replied, paying rent.

The reminder that he owned this house, paid cash right up, didn't seem to disturb Kenny's display of retribution.

When he woke up the next morning, the sheets were still wrinkled, but the sun-bathed side was empty. Outside the window, two fat, jerking dogs pulled a sallow figure on makeshift rope leashes, leading him down the long driveway, around the side of the house, on the promise of a morning walk. Something that never occurred to Stan. That's what all the land was for.

He sat at the piano, staring.

It was common enough. Shoot for the sky, hit the treetops. He hadn't written non-lucratively for years. They had asked for the new "Do a Dollop of Daisy"; he gave them the new "Where's the Beef?". The loyalties had bought him the creaking house.

The current job was for coffee. He called Tweek and talked for twenty minutes, ending with the promise of meeting up sometime. He went back to staring.

Kenny came back home, brushing copious amounts of dust from his clothes—there wasn't a sidewalk for miles, but plenty of highway. He was grinning, carefree, passing through the living room and into the kitchen in a slow blur, stretching the joints of the house in a thunderous search for food.

He returned, chewing on a raw, uncut bagel, and stared at Stan staring.

He wheedled a few stutters with his thumb and pinky finger. He wanted a bagel, but couldn't let Kenny watch him give up.

The artistic pause was broken by an enthusiastic belting of the chorus of "The Piano Man". Once Kenny finished, grinning and throwing his hands forward as means of introducing the performer to the audience, Stan smiled softly and started a stream of interlinking notes; the song he played the most, his favorite, not because of the sound, but because of the bouncing motion it required of his hands, the staccatos and twitching knuckles.

He was well-received with a slow-clap that swelled and burst in solitude.

They slept in their own beds that night.

When he went to peek into the guest room the next morning, he heard shuffling as the door slipped open. Kenny was lying with the covers pulled up to his chin. Though his eyes were closed, the tracks of water and blooming redness gave him away.

Stan closed the door and went downstairs.

The problem was, he wasn't inspired by coffee.

But had he been inspired by insurance? Had he been inspired by toilet paper?

He stared at the keys, mind blank, and raised his hands.

He wanted to write something good. Money was not inspiration.

Kenny came downstairs a half an hour later, wet-haired and showing his gap. Stan tried to hold his already shaky focus, but found it slipping like the cliché sand in his fingertips it was, and left his office to invite Kenny on a walk.

Stan tried to pull some depth out of the conversation by asking Kenny how he was doing; his efforts were rewarded with thirty minutes of fun facts relating to sex. They returned dusty and tired, and went back to their assigned corners of the house.

It wasn't until the next Saturday Kenny paid rent again.

Stan felt the inspiration filling him like water into a balloon; swelling, preparing to explode out of his hands and into the piano. In the meantime, he devoted as little creative energy as he could to jotting down a cheap jingle for the coffee job.

Bebe called, asking to speak with Kenny. Before relaying the phone to his friend, who was trying to trick the dogs into believing he was playing with them and not washing them in the yard, he forced her to answer a few brief questions.

Kenny had been staying with Bebe, his Friend-with-Benefits, for the past year. The benefits had started after moving in, and ended when the moving out occurred; Bebe's orders, to make room for her boyfriend to move in.

The answer to one question particularly bothered Stan; when asking why Kenny only tried to sleep with her once she was allowing him rent-free stay in her apartment, she replied that it was his method of showing gratitude. When he asked why, she sighed, and admitted it was the only thing he knew how to do.

Three heads popped up when he opened the door and called out.

That night, Stan heard anemic sniffling down the hall. Footsteps, a nose blowing, the toilet flushing, more footsteps, and silence.

He woke up from a shallow sleep the next morning with the sun. Quietly, he padded down the creaking hall, slipped through Kenny's open door, and sat on the edge of the mattress. He was laying innocently enough; mouth wide open, drooling heavily, stretched out on his side. Stan rubbed his thick, tangled hair with one hand, keeping a steady eye on the relaxed face. The skin under his eyes had gone thin and grey. Stan didn't know why; Kenny was sleeping more regularly than he was. He could see the dark gap in the side of his mouth between his parted lips. Kenny had explained it as a result of gnashing his teeth, loosening them, then poking at it with his tongue until he could feel the sharp edge of the molar; from there, in a self-destructive habit similar to nail-biters and trichtotillomaniacs, worked at it until he woke up one morning to find it missing from his mouth, found crumpled in the sheets under his pillow. Stan had stared on in disgusted fascination until Kenny snapped back, bringing up the few months freshman year Stan had cut. Conversation had ended for the night, although they had stayed together on the porch, drinking their beer in silence. Since then, Stan would occasionally notice Kenny holding his jaw awkwardly.

Kenny murmured in his sleep, then fully opened his bright blue eyes, looking like a cat with the sun catching the color and spitting it back out like spotlights. Past the color, they were dull.

Stan gave a vague excuse, stood, and left.

Lizzie came to pick Kenny up that night. They were going out to the bar. The lesbian sat in her car outside, leaning on the horn, until Kenny, his shoes half on, stumbled out the door, closing it before fully released a loud goodbye.

Stan let the dogs in—normally forbidden—and let them sit on the couch while he watched TV with the volume most of the way up.

He was woken up by a combination of two hundred pounds vaulting off the couch to the creaking floor and frantic woofing. Sleepily, he glanced at the clock—2:39—and followed the waddling dogs into the kitchen, to the front door.

Lizzie stood, looking angry, one hand on her hip. She told Stan Kenny was currently in her back seat, in a pool of his own vomit, and would most likely need assistance getting out, in, and up the stairs. She led Stan back to her car, mumbling about how obvious her sexuality was—Stan assumed this meant Kenny had gone past friendly. He felt a slight hollowing.

The puke-specked blonde grinned, sitting up straighter, when his friend came into view. He let out a garbled wail of affection, and allowed himself to be tugged out of the car and mostly carried back to the house. After releasing him in a controlled fall in the kitchen, Lizzie delivered a sharp kick to his ribs, and told Stan she'd call the next day to see how he was.

After a moment of observation, Stan resigned to bring blankets in from the living room and lay down beside Kenny in the kitchen, to be sure he didn't roll onto his back and drown in his own puke, and to keep from having to pull the almost surely passed-out burden up the stairs.

The next day, they had one brief conversation regarding the events. Stan suggested Kenny talk to him about why he drank so much. Kenny told Stan it was not his business. Stan told Kenny he wanted to help him. Kenny told Stan sometimes people actually deal with and fix their problems on their own, and didn't need baby-sat. Stan stirred his pot of ramen noodles. Kenny told Stan to fuck off.

Rent was paid again Thursday.

Cheerfully, Kenny bopped into the living room, where Stan was concentrating intensely on the sheet of notebook paper he had poised a pencil over. Kenny read quietly over his shoulder, stuck out his lower lip, and left.

They sat on the couch watching TV that night, the dogs, now spending cold nights inside (Fall was starting to show up; to be put simply, they were let in at night.) Stan watched as Kenny bit hungrily at his nails, eyes glazed and directed at the screen. He tried to focus on the show. His attention slipped uselessly—his eyes jutted toward Kenny, turning his hand at an awkward angle to chew away at nail that was no longer there, probably bringing up scabs.

He grabbed the hand.

Kenny looked toward their hands, nonplussed, as Stan rubbed his thumb over the jagged stubs of nails. His thumb moved down, rubbing his first knuckles, and smiled weakly.

As if something had suddenly bit his toe, Kenny's eyes popped his realization, and he burst to his feet, eliciting the sleeping dog's attention, announced he was going to bed, and thundered up the stairs.

He didn't come out of his room 'til noon the next day.

He was holding the bloated overnight bag he'd brought with him.

Stan stared on as Kenny explained he didn't want to be a burden; he was moving in with Cartman, just 'til he got off his feet, got a job—he started to state a third goal, then cut off to say that Cartman was on his way to pick him up.

Stan's jaw fell. He stammered as he tried to get words out—why was he moving, what did he do wrong, he wanted to help him, why Cartman, he was supposed to help him, why was he moving out?

Kenny sighed, dropped the bag, and sat down on the couch. He felt Stan was getting too attached. He referenced the song. Stan stared down at his scribbled stack of notebook paper, confused. Kenny seemed sure the song was about him. Enraged, Stan stood, and started shouting. The blonde took it boredly, before moseying to the piano, picking up the papers, and reading a few lines out loud.

Oh.

Stan blushed deeply.

He wanted to help him.

Kenny seemed sure he didn't need help.

"I love you."

The words hung like ice in the silent house.

"You're a fag, Stan."

A horn honked outside. Kenny picked up his suitcase, gave Stan a miserable glance, and moved toward the door.

"Are you going to sleep with him, too?"

Kenny ignored him, slipped out the door, and was gone.

--

He didn't know what he had been thinking. The house was really too big for one person and a couple of fat dogs. The only time he ever set foot off the large, paved driveway was for lawn care, and the dogs seemed happy sitting on the warm blacktop for hours to let out their energy in daily walks. He sold it for much cheaper than he'd bought it—fully furnished, standing piano included—and moved back into town. The royalties from the last few jingles and the profit from the house sale would support him while he took a small sabbatical from music. He lost his security deposit within a month from all the spots on the carpet the dogs made.

The couple above him fought a lot. The sound of shouting, pounding footsteps, doors slamming, and sometimes sobbing provided a weirdly soothing atmosphere.

Kenny never called again. His mom did, three years later, inviting him to the funeral. Stan had to work that day. He said a bloodless goodbye, and spent the rest of the evening cleaning the apartment.

He was doing okay.

--

AN: This one sucks too. Damn. DAMN. IDC. Fuck it all! I used symbolism. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I tricked you into reading this. Why can't I stop using drugs as a scapegoat in my stories? Why can't they ever end happy? Why must everyone either die or spiral into a life-long depression? I SUCKKKK. Blame Imogen Heap. God dammit with the forced lack of dialogue and the—ERGGH I SUCK.


End file.
